


put your head on my shoulder

by omisuga



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Time Skip, i lied there is a tiny bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omisuga/pseuds/omisuga
Summary: In which Atsumu has a bad day, and Kiyoomi decides there are worse things than spoiling him a little bit.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 352





	put your head on my shoulder

The pasta is half-cooked when Kiyoomi first senses something is wrong. He stirs the pot with one hand while the other wakes up his phone, frowning when there’s no new notifications. The snow is coming down faster than expected. The streets are already covered. The neighborhood has already gone still and quiet. Kiyoomi parts the curtains above the sink and watches fat flakes drift under the streetlights.

The water boils over and Kiyoomi hurriedly returns his attention back to dinner, cutting the heat and shoving the pot to another burner. Wiping a hand on his apron, he harries another glance to his phone. Nothing.

 _So he’s late,_ Kiyoomi reasons with himself. _No need to panic. He’s probably just driving._

 _Driving in the middle of a heavy snowstorm with his shitty Toyota Aqua and terrible sense of direction,_ his anxiety answers. _He is so fucked._

Kiyoomi drains the water from the pasta. Growing up, he had a fear of the stove instilled in him by his older sibling. It wasn’t necessarily their fault, but, one time, they didn’t notice Kiyoomi reaching up to touch a hot pan while they were cooking. It was a minor burn, but Kiyoomi avoided the stove for years after. Even in his university days, he would simply microwave whatever needed to be cooked. Kiyoomi isn’t exactly proud of that.

The reason he started to use the stove was because of Miya Atsumu.

Atsumu likes homemade things. He swears up and down that his brother’s onigiris taste better at home than at the shop. His hats and scarves are all lovingly stitched by his mother. He writes little notes and leaves them in Kiyoomi’s locker or his gym bag.

Their first date was at Atsumu’s apartment. Back then, they refused to call it that. It was just them watching the EJP Raijins go against the Schweiden Adlers, a joint effort at supporting their respective family on EJP. Atsumu surprised him at every turn. The framed photographs on the wall, the box of botched Onigiri Miya merch in the corner, the pile of notebooks filled with volleyball notes. Atsumu left him to entertain himself before disappearing into the kitchen, and returned with a plate of slightly burnt cookies.

Their second date - the one they admit was a date - Atsumu cooked an entire dinner for them. Kiyoomi thought, even as he failed to hide a grimace when the veggies were over-seasoned, it was one of the best meals he ever had.

Kiyoomi isn't one to be outdone. So, a few weeks later, he used the stove. He angled his body away from the head and kept fireproof oven mitts on the entire time, but he did it. And, more importantly, he kept doing it.

The number of things he can cook is still limited, but he’s starting to prefer homemade things, too. Atsumu beams every time he comes over and sees the kitchen messy, and he kisses Kiyoomi's cheek before thanking him for the meal. It fills Kiyoomi with an awful, domestic desire to do more.

Kiyoomi turns around to put the pot back onto the stove and pauses when his eyes catch movement outside. A car pulls up to the curb, but it's not Atsumu's. It's an equally banged up black Honda that Kiyoomi recognizes immediately.

He squints as Atsumu clambers out of the passenger side, shivering and rubbing his arms as he bends down to speak to the driver. Then, with a wave, Atsumu slams the door shut and waddles through the snow.

Kiyoomi is already moving to the foyer, and he pulls the front door open just as Atsumu gives a tentative knock. "Late," Kiyoomi greets. His tone sounds as concerned as he feels. Atsumu manages a bashful smile, but he's shivering and his eyes are tired. Kiyoomi drags him inside immediately. "What happened?"

Atsumu groans in relief as the door shuts. He shrugs out of his snow-dusted hoodies before pushing his head into Kiyoomi's shoulder. "Today has been such a fuckin' dumpster fire."

"You're freezing," Kiyoomi hisses, but his hands immediately start trying to rub some heat back into Atsumu's arms.

"I lost my keys," he says. "To my apartment. And my car."

"You what?"

"Yeah. I dunno if I locked them in my apartment or dropped them on the way to the car, but they're gone."

"What about your spare?"

"They're in the car," Atsumu whines, pushing more of his weight onto Kiyoomi. "I had to call Osamu to come pick me up. It was humiliatin'."

"You could've called me."

"Nah. I didn't wanna bother you." Atsumu pulls back, smiling softly as he glances into the kitchen. “So, what’s for dinner? I’m starvin’.”

Kiyoomi frowns. Something about those words makes his stomach sink. Atsumu chooses the worst times to be considerate. Like right after a game where all Kiyoomi wants to do is collapse on the couch and hold his boyfriend, but Atsumu seems to think he needs to take a shower first or scrub down the apartment. “It’s not a big deal,” is what he says then and it’s what he says now. Atsumu ignores him, moving to peer at the jars of red beef sauce on the counter. “And, spaghetti.”

“Romantic,” Atsumu teases. They both know Kiyoomi can only cook three or four dishes. They have spaghetti every other week or so. Atsumu grins and looks Kiyoomi up and down. “Yer wearin’ it.”

Kiyoomi looks down at his apron with a scowl. It’s a terrible yellow color with an orange pineapple printed on the front. Atsumu gifted it to him a while back because he said the pineapple’s cartoonish grumpy expression matched Kiyoomi’s perfectly. “You gave it to me,” he grumbles before shooing Atsumu away from the stove. “I’m not going to get sauce all over my clothes.”

Atsumu laughs. “I knew ya liked it.”

“It’s practical.”

“Uh-huh.’

Kiyoomi notices Atsumu is still shivering a bit. He clicks his tongue. “Go turn on the kotatsu. I’m almost done here.”

“I’d kiss ya right now if I could feel my lips.”

Kiyoomi shoves him firmly towards the kotatsu. “Sit,” he orders. “If you get sick before our game, I swear…”

“Okay, okay.”

A few minutes later, Kiyoomi brings out two plates. Atsumu is curled up under the quilt, using his arms as a pillow as he scrolls mindlessly on his phone. His back is still tense, his expression still glum, but he perks up as Kiyoomi slides his plate to him. He looks a bit like a scolded puppy, eyes soft and shoulders slumped.

“Thank you, Omi.” He smiles. “This looks great.”

It really doesn’t. Kiyoomi just sets a jar of parmesan cheese on the table and nods awkwardly, happy to be complimented anyways. They share dinner in near silence. Comfortable, familiar. Atsumu seems to relax more and more as he eats.

“It’s Bokkun’s fault,” he says suddenly. “He called me while I was on my way out the door. It only clicked when I heard my door shut behind me, and I realized I didn’t grab my fucking keys.” He shoves more pasta into his mouth. “It’s yer fault, too,” he grumbles with his mouth full, “for convincing me to get one of those auto-locking doors.”

“I wanted you to get a smart lock,” Kiyoomi corrects. “That way your phone is your key. It’d be less for you to keep track of, and easier to resolve problems like this.”

Atsumu puffs out his cheeks. “I don’t want Google in charge of my whole life.”

“I hate to tell you this,” Kiyoomi interjects, “but it already kind of is.”

They clean up together. Atsumu washes the dishes and Kiyoomi dries. As they finish up, Kiyoomi glances out the window again. The snow has covered the streets again, completely erasing Atsumu’s footsteps from fight. “It’s getting late already,” Kiyoomi muses.

Atsumu sighs. “Guess I should call Samu.”

“Why?”

“He said I can crash at his place until I can get in touch with my landlord.” Atsumu pouts. “He left me on read.”

“No,” Kiyoomi says.

“No?”

“Just stay,” he clarifies. “I’ll drive you to your brother’s if that’s what you want, but you’re already here.”

“Are you su-?”

“Stay the night,” Kiyoomi says, and runs a hand down Atsumu’s back. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

It’s far from the first time that Atsumu spent the night with him. Kiyoomi isn’t sure why Atsumu seems so tentative tonight. He definitely has his days, everyone does, but usually Atsumu faces his problems loudly. He complains, he yells, he plans. Tonight, Atsumu just seems frustrated and dejected. Kiyoomi hates it. So, he asks, “Do you like marshmallows in your hot chocolate?”

Atsumu blinks at him. “Who doesn’t?”

“Go sit down. I’ll bring you a mug.”

“Why’re ya bein’ so nice?” Atsumu squints suspiciously. “Am I actin’ that pathetic?”

“Kind of,” Kiyoomi admits. “Just let me take care of you for once.”

“Fine. But I want whipped cream.”

“You really are out of luck today,” Kiyoomi jokes. “I don’t have any.”

“Dammit.”

Kiyoomi makes sure to put double marshmallows in Atsumu’s mug. He doesn’t say anything as he returns to Atsumu’s side and sits on the same side of the kotatsu with him. He doesn’t say anything as he wraps an arm around Atsumu’s waist as they watch an old sitcom rerun and sip their drinks. He doesn’t say anything as Atsumu rests his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and slips a hand onto his thigh.

Kiyoomi pretends to watch the show for a little longer, enjoying the way Atsumu’s touches slowly become a little more adamant. He sets his empty mug on the table and Atsumu mirrors his movements before dropping a kiss to Kiyoomi’s cheek. “Omi,” he grumbles, “what time is it?”

“Late,” is all he says before their gazes meet. Atsumu quirks an eyebrow and lowers his eyelids in an obvious manner. Heat pools in his stomach. “Why?”

“Wanna makeout?”

Kiyoomi scoffs. Atsumu’s tact is utterly nonexistent, but he supposes he likes that about him. There’s no real hidden meaning to anything Atsumu does. He’s open and honest and up front about what he wants. Kiyoomi never has to question anything about him. He just gets to love and be loved in return, and that’s not something that everyone can say. He knows how lucky he is, and he has no problems admitting it. “I’m surprised you even bothered to ask,” he teases.

“Shaddup.” Atsumu scoots closer. He kisses Kiyoomi’s jaw and then the corner of his mouth.

Kiyoomi does shut up, but only because Atsumu kisses him properly this time. Like everything else in their relationship, they fall fast. It isn’t long until Atsumu presses forward too hard, teeth nipping at his lower lip, and Kiyoomi falls onto his back. Atsumu clambers after him, swinging a leg over his waist to straddle him. It’s suddenly _much_ hotter in his apartment.

Kiyoomi pulls at Atsumu’s hoodie. Atsumu digs his fingers into Kiyoomi’s sweatpants. They break apart for just a second, reassuring each other with brief smiles, before they sink back into each other. Atsumu is a comfortable weight above him, and the soft groans he starts to make between kisses is making his head spin.

“Atsumu,” he manages to get out when Atsumu’s attention drifts to Kiyoomi’s cheeks and jaw again. “Tsumu…”

“Hm?” Atsumu pulls Kiyoomi’s t-shirt down to suck a mark into the crook of his neck.

Kiyoomi’s toes curl. He’s tempted to say _fuck it_ , but the last time they got too heated under the kotatsu didn’t exactly work out so well for either of them. “Bed,” he says firmly, pushing Atsumu’s head away.

Atsumu wipes his lip with the back of his hand and nods. He doesn’t move. Just watches Kiyoomi with something so disgustingly fond in his eyes that it makes Kiyoomi blush.

“Atsumu.”

“Yeah?”

“You have to get off me now.”

“Oh. Right.” Atsumu rolls off of him, reaching over to switch off the kotatsu as he goes. He stands, Kiyoomi’s gaze following his every move, and stretches lightly before offering a hand. Kiyoomi takes it, but pulls away when Atsumu tries to tangle their fingers together. Instead, he shrugs out of his t-shirt, and Atsumu’s expression goes from confused to interested in a millisecond.

“Bed,” he repeats when all Atsumu does is gawk.

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees.

Realizing that Atsumu’s brain is somewhere up in orbit, Kiyoomi pushes him toward the hallway. Atsumu snaps out of his head as they walk, pulling off his hoodie and shirt as they go. Kiyoomi decides to kick out of his sweatpants in turn, and Atsumu glances behind them to laugh at the trail of clothes they left behind.

Atsumu plops into Kiyoomi’s bed like he belongs there. And, really, he does. His blonde hair looks brighter against his dark sheets. His smile warms up the room in nonsensical ways. Kiyoomi climbs in after him, idly wondering if Atsumu might feel the same way. That home is no longer the same when they’re by themselves. That dinner doesn’t taste as good without someone to cook for.

“Omi,” Atsumu whispers against his lips, “ya still have too many clothes on.”

Kiyoomi exhales a chuckle, but obliges. He chucks off his briefs and socks before helping Atsumu out of his boxers. “Ya always look so serious,” Atsumu sighs as he lays back. “What’cha thinkin’ about?”

That should be obvious. Kiyoomi is usually the one that gets lost in his own head, but his thoughts scatter to the winds whenever Atsumu is involved. Atsumu knows exactly where Kiyoomi’s headspace is headed.

But that’s the game Atsumu likes to play. He wants Kiyoomi to beg for it, to be the first one to break and lose himself to the moment, and he’s had a fantastic winning streak as of late. But Kiyoomi enjoys seeing Atsumu lose control as well, likes pushing his buttons and seeing him so _desperate_ for Kiyoomi’s body that he can’t help himself.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, and Atsumu’s slow reaction to his voice shows him that maybe Kiyoomi’s already won.

Atsumu’s lips are bruised from all the kissing, eyes dark and hooded, hair mussed. Kiyoomi traces his neck with his lips, mouthing down his shoulder and biting down when Atsumu lets out soft gasp. “You,” Atsumu answers. “I want you.”

Kiyoomi hums, as if he’s considering saying no. But, Atsumu is already moving, pressing their bodies together, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have enough control left to tease.

 _“Please,”_ Atsumu whispers and, just like that, the game is over.

Kiyoomi moans, hands sliding down Atsumu’s body, and suddenly doesn’t care if Kayo’s gotten another tally added to his win streak or not. He wants to give Atsumu exactly what he wants.

They slip into their normal routine. Kiyoomi haphazardly digs in his nightstand drawer for supplies. Atsumu kicks the sheets down past their feet and settles into the pillows. Kiyoomi uncaps the lube just as Atsumu pulls his knees up. He squeezes a little too hard and entirely misses his hand, lube dropping right onto his sheets. “Dammit,” he hisses and wipes it off hurriedly. “Shut up,” he adds to Atsumu, who snorts.

“Didn’t say anything,” Atsumu teases. He sounds as fond as he looks. Kiyoomi falters, just for a second, because it doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done this. There will always be a moment where Kiyoomi has to stop and process his own reality. Miya Atsumu is in his bed, caring and patient, and Kiyoomi feels nothing but safe and certain. Atsumu smirks when he notices Kiyoomi’s heavy attention and lifts a leg higher. “Ya good, Omi?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”

He crawls back to Atsumu and runs his clean hand up Atsumu’s leg, fingers sinking into his fleshy part of his thigh to push it back further. Atsumu’s grin doesn’t falter until Kiyoomi pushes in the first finger. Kiyoomi always takes his time. Not just because he doesn’t want to hurt Atsumu - that’s the last thing he wants - but also because it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Atsumu flushed and biting his lower lip, wishing for Kiyoomi to hurry it up but knowing he won’t, falling apart second by second.

By the third finger, Atsumu’s patience runs out. “God,” he grumbles, “come on already.” Kiyoomi twists his fingers right to Atsumu’s prostate for that, and stores away the image of Atsumu’s eyes snapping open in his memory. “Kiyoomi!” He’s starting to sound a little pissed so Kiyoomi nods and pulls away to grab a condom.

It’s something Kiyoomi will never be used to but will always enjoy. The moment Kiyoomi starts to push, Atsumu arcs his back sharply and gives an even sharper hum. Kiyoomi sighs. His hand always finds Kiyoomi’s face. Fingers trailing, adorning, along his cheek and lips and hair. Neither of them are used to being doted on. It makes everything frighteningly, explicitly real and _intimate_ that it takes his breath away every time. It doesn’t matter how often they do this. Kiyoomi will never be used to it.

“O-oh,” Atsumu lets out when Kiyoomi starts moving. His hands go up to grip Kiyoomi’s shoulders before they slide down to his chest and his still-short fingernails bite his skin. Kiyoomi shivers and goes faster. Atsumu gasps, blinks at the sudden change in pace. Kiyoomi finds it hard to let go, to surrender himself to the overwhelming pleasure that builds within him. He remains blatantly aware of his position between Atsumu’s thighs, the press and pull of each thrust, the inflection of each of his breaths, and he thinks it’s beautiful but strange.

He remains sharply aware of the creak of the bed, the silent fall of snow outside their window, the bustle of the winter city beneath. Each moment is so overwhelmingly real and focused until it suddenly isn’t.

Atsumu moves a certain way, rasps his name, and suddenly heat shatters his sensibilities into nothing but sensations. Atsumu moans, loudly, and wraps a leg over Kiyoomi’s hips. “Omi,” he sobs. “More.”

“Oh, fuck,” Kiyoomi chokes, fists a hand into Atsumu’s hair, and makes sure that his body completely cages Atsumu in before kissing him roughly. Atsumu groans into his mouth, breaths coming hard and uneven now. His rhythm devolves into something desperate, impatient. All he wants now is to hear Atsumu fall apart underneath him.

Judging by the stream of curses babbling out of Atsumu’s mouth, he’s close. His hands drag up Kiyoomi’s back, pressing bruisings into his shoulders that match the ones Kiyoomi’s pressing into Atsumu’s hips. He slides one hand over to stroke Atsumu’s dick once, twice, and then Atsumu’s gone. He throws his head back and moans as he comes, some garbled remnants of Kiyoomi’s name lost to the moment.

Kiyoomi follows, heart practically tumbling out of his chest as his form crumples on top of Atsumu and growls into the base of his throat.

Whereas it takes Kiyoomi longer to fall apart, it also takes him longer to piece himself back together. Atsumu bounces back easily, rolling onto the other side of the bed and smiling up at the ceiling as if boasting to the gods themselves. Kiyoomi catches his breath, and folds an arm over his eyes as he tries to reconstruct basic functions. Like speaking.

“Wow,” Atsumu whistles, “ya sure keep me young, babe.” He gives Kiyoomi’s stomach a playful swat.

Kiyoomi lowers his arm and glares at Atsumu wearily. “I’m only three four months younger than you.”

“Five,” Atsumu corrects.

 _Fuck,_ Kiyoomi thinks, _he’s right_. Math hasn’t returned to him yet.

Atsumu is already turning onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and appraising Kiyoomi’s body with a sly smirk. “Think ya can go again later?”

Kiyoomi pouts. “Shower.”

“We’re just gonna get dirty again.”

“That’s… not really what I meant.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow in confusion before it clicks. “Oh.” He winks. “In that case, wanna go wash up?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. At least Atsumu looks happier than he had when he arrived. Kiyoomi prefers a happy, loud Atsumu over a somber, quiet one any day. “Gimme a minute,” he murmurs.

Atsumu laughs. “Omi, yer not gettin’ outta shape, are ya? We’re gonna be Olympians in a few months, yanno.”

“I’m not tired,” he says and tugs at Atsumu’s arm. “Just… relax for a bit.”

“If ya wanna cuddle, just say so,” Atsumu teases, but settles into Kiyoomi’s side anyways. He rests his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder and tangles their legs together. “Ya big softie.”

Kiyoomi hums, lightly toying with Atsumu’s hair. During the early days of their relationship, Kiyoomi would’ve protested being soft for anything. But, at this point, the truth is undismissable. There’s little Kiyoomi wouldn’t do to keep his boyfriend smiling.

A few minutes later, Kiyoomi is the one pushing Atsumu up and out of bed. Atsumu blinks sleepily as Kiyoomi directs them to the bathroom, as if he hadn’t truly taken Kiyoomi seriously earlier. He smirks as Kiyoomi turns on the water and tests the temperature. “Ya really wanna do it in the shower, huh?”

“Just get in.” Kiyoomi pulls Atsumu closer before sliding the door shut. Atsumu huffs, but there’s a smile hanging on his face as Kiyoomi reaches for the body wash. “Let me see your back.”

Atsumu turns away. “Ya don’t have to,” he says softly even though he practically preens under Kiyoomi’s touch. “I feel like a bother.”

He said something similar when he showed up. Kiyoomi doesn’t know when this self-doubt began, but he’s stopping this line of thought right now. "I want you to bother me," he mumbles. "You're my boyfriend, asshole. You should ask me for help."

Atsumu smiles. His arms wrap around his neck and drag him into a soft kiss. “Maybe I should just say fuck it,” he says, “and forget the old apartment. I mean, yer bed is obviously big enough for two. Shower, too.”

Kiyoomi hums, inhaling the scent of lavender and aloe. “We’d still need to break into yours. Your gym bag is in there, for one thing. Not to mention your clothes and laptop and car keys.” He reaches behind Atsumu to slightly adjust the water temperature. “And, I like your coffee maker better.”

Atsumu’s laugh echoes against the shower tiles. Kiyoomi smiles. Even if Atsumu is only kidding, Kiyoomi is already mentally planning which drawers to clear out and what side of the closet needs cleaned.

Atsumu likes homemade things, but Kiyoomi thinks he might just like making a home.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. i just like them soft for each other. that's all. ( ; u ;)b


End file.
